


Ride

by Horribibble



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Racing, Author has pitifully little knowledge of cars, M/M, Stiles Is About to Lose His Shit, Street Racing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Horribibble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the McCall street-racing team is prone to a lot of accidents, and their mechanic, one Stiles Stilinski, just knows they are pulling this shit on purpose. </p><p>So one day, he’s tearing out of the garage and into Scott’s office, ready to rip his best friend a new one, except there’s a new guy in Scott’s office. A very muscular, stubbly new guy, with eyes the color of take me I'm yours.</p><p>Stiles is only slightly in love. </p><p>(And that door was not there before.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BethanyWritesAll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethanyWritesAll/gifts).



> Originally posted (and gif'd) [here.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/post/64680559890/sterek-au-in-which-the-mccall-street-racing-team)

Stiles Stilinski has been interested in cars since before he could walk. His mom would take him into the garage with her and prop him up in his little nest while she labored under the hood of what his father affectionately called the Robin’s Egg Monstrosity. She called it _Roscoe._

It was his first word, but that was their little secret. His dad didn’t need any more competition when it came to that Jeep. Occasionally he’d come out to fetch Stiles inside and find him curled up with a few dull-edged metal parts, putting them together and taking them apart.

75% of his baby pictures probably involved grease and oil stains.

“You’ve gotta come inside sometime, bud.” John would say. 

“No way, hon. I need my little grease monkey.” Claudia would answer.

“You’re giving him ideas.”

“He already _has_ those, baby.” She would grin, and John would lean in for a kiss before ruffling his son’s hair and heading off to work.

His mom would hoist Stiles up on her hip to wave him off, eying the cruiser’s hood with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“Don’t even think about it.” He’d call.

And she’d laugh and laugh and laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

During high school, it had been a matter of pride—a childhood skill put to the test all for the sake of that _one thing_ he could lord over Jackson Whittemore and his shiny Porsche. He and Scott had busted their _asses_ to finally put together a vehicle that could, without a doubt, take down Jackson and his douchemobile.

The end result had been a resounding success.

It had also gotten them both grounded for three months, but it had been so very worth it.

  

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t really a surprise when Stiles told his father that he and Scott were pooling their money to start up a garage. For a moment, he hadn’t known what to say, so he’d looked at his kid—really _looked._ He could see in Stiles so much of his mother. Not just her facial structure, or the playful run of moles across her skin, but the slick smudges of oil and the quick play of her fingers.

The wild, devil-may-care grin was something he couldn’t keep away from him.

So he shrugged his shoulders and turned the glass in his hands, “My skinny little kid, running a garage.”

“Yep.” Stiles beamed, and there it was.

  

* * *

 

 

A few years later, with a lot of elbow grease and heart, and a not-inconsiderable amount of swearing, Stiles has become an established mechanic, and a fairly decent-looking guy, if you like them slim and snarky. It was tough growing up in a town where every other guy you knew came out looking like a damn GQ model.

Still, Stiles has his wits going for him.

And his babies.

He saunters into the garage early on a Monday morning, swaggering and whistling along to the tune of Applause because, hey, when you’re _this_ good, no one gets to criticize your ear worms—especially when they keep fucking up your beautiful works of art.

After putting in the time and effort, they’re doing very well. Their names are getting out there, and for the most part, the results are positive. Sure, there’s always the occasional idiot looking for trouble, but Scott is _good_ , seriously good, and Isaac is getting there.

As far as Stiles is concerned, he gets to play all day, so it isn’t much trouble to teach the dirty blonde a thing or two about fixing cars up instead of hotwiring them. Between races, Isaac is a decent enough distraction, but not a significant help.

Race days are a different story. 

On race days, Scott devotes himself to mugging dopily for the pretty girls, and Isaac tends to hang back, hesitant to join in. Stiles waits with Lydia, praying not for victory, but for a collision-free day.

He doesn’t know how many times he’ll have to explain it before they understand that they are driving top-of-the-line _masterpieces_ , not fucking _go-karts._

At least on race days, he gets to _see_ the accidents happen. He’s too concerned with whether his friends are okay to get _really_ furious at them.

But this time— _this_ time—

Stiles stares, his eyes bugged and his chest burning with the need to burst and screech and collapse into a spinning void of destruction all at once. He is looking at the banged-up form of a sleek purple Corvette, tears gathering in his eyes at her defiled beauty.

Joy ride.

Once a favorite pastime and now a dreaded watchword.

Scott McCall and Isaac Lahey cannot be trusted on a joy ride.

“Oh my _G-d!_ ” Stiles can feel rage packing in his throat. No. No no no. No, sir. Not after all the work he’s put in. He is going to knock Scott’s crooked jaw straight back into alignment, because _justice needs to be served_.

He cannot handle this crap by himself.

The work orders are getting backed up, there are parts that _still_ need ordering and inventorying, and _they have fucked up the Corvette._

“ ** _It is not an accident if you keep doing it!_** _”_

They’re doing it on purpose. They _have_ to be doing it on purpose, because no one on earth can be so simultaneously talented at winning races and wrecking cars. Especially not in so many colorful and disastrous ways.

If this keeps up, the red ink’s going to start showing up in the books, and Lydia is going to rip them into neat little pieces and arrange them in holiday-patterned Ziplocs and Stiles is going to _lose his fucking mind, okay?_

He storms toward the office, well-air conditioned and well-stocked with a reasonable selection of alcohol _and,_ presumably,his idiot best friend.

He’s going to give him the talking to of his damn _life_ about road safety and respecting people’s hard work and _what will he do if Stiles leaves him to get a real fucking job okay?_

One where people don’t immediately undo all of his hard work in cataclysmic fashion and then bat their eyes and go, _Sorry, dude_ like a ten-year-old with an overstuffed backpack.

He tears into the main office, ready to do battle,  and—

There’s a new guy sitting across the desk from Scott. He’s tall, and broad-shouldered, clearly too muscular for the chair. Or for this earth, for that matter.

He looks like Perfection met Fantasy and they had a baby with just the right amount of stubble to corner the market on Stiles’ wet dreams. His hair is dark and mussed from running his fingers through it—an activity that Stiles would very much like to join in on—and his smile is pretty white and amused—apparently having heard the very loud breakdown from across the garage.

Stiles looks into his eyes and can’t process much of a shade other than _take me I’m yours._

He stops and blinks, then blinks again, and Scott says, “Hey, Stiles. Remember how you said you couldn’t handle this shit all by yourself? Meet Derek Hale, your new grease buddy.”

Scott means it as a joke. He has to, because he’s got that crooked, shit-eating grin on his face, and he obviously sees him floundering for air or dignity or _something_ that he is clearly not getting.

Son of a bitch.

Stiles has an active imagination.

 

* * *

 

When Stiles finally manages to regain his wits, he motions to Scott, indicating what he hopes is a sufficiently intimidating ‘we’ll talk later’ before turning his attention back to Derek.

“Hey. Stiles Stilinski, I’m the head mechanic around here. I’m also pretty much the _only_ mechanic around here, so it’s not doing me any favors. Not with this dumbass in charge.” He jerks a thumb at Scott, who makes an indignant ‘ _he-’_ before Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

“I’ve heard.”

“Really? And you still want to work here?”

“I’ve heard good things.”

Stiles grins, because having his ego stroked by a hot guy first thing in the morning? Not a thing that happens that often, especially when he spends this much of his time slaving over engine blocks and exhaust systems. “Guess word really is getting around.”

Derek just _looks_ at him, and Stiles shifts on his feet. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, sloping his shoulders, “All right, so I’m gonna shut up and just give you the grand tour. Sound fair?”

Derek gets up out of the _chair_ attractively—which just isn’t fair—and makes a sweeping gesture for Stiles to lead the way.

Stiles turns to do as promised, and runs straight into the door.

 

* * *

 

            It doesn’t get any better after that.

            With an efficiency previously reserved for making enemies out of every social sciences teacher he’s ever had, Stiles manages to prove himself a walking, talking advertisement for duct tape.

            The first week, when Derek comes to ask him a question about a work order, he finds Stiles shaking his ass and lip-syncing to Bubblegum Bitch, and that’s just it. Stiles has no explanation _other_ than ‘ _What can I say? My hips don’t lie._ ’

            And then he pops a hip-shimmy to _‘Soda pop, soda pop’_ that makes him rethink _all_ of his life-choices as Derek blinks a few times before turning about-face and walking out with a grunted, “Right, later.”

            “Right. Later.” His head makes a dull _thud_ against the hood, “From far away. Possibly across state lines. I am the _king_ of the asshats.”

            After that, the incidents just keep on rolling in.

            Derek settles into life at the garage, and Stiles continues to embarrass himself at any given opportunity—except when it comes to the work. When Derek needs something, or when Stiles needs to get shit done, it’s all business.

            Nothing is going to stand between Stiles Stilinski and his constant pursuit of vehicular nirvana. Not even his growing sense of embarrassment, or the way Derek Hale’s ass looks in those jeans.

 

* * *

  

            Aside from being disgustingly perfect in the looks department, Derek is like a godsend when it comes to Stiles’ workload. He’s well-versed, efficient, and when Isaac peeks in, asking if there’s maybe some way he can help today without Stiles planting a wrench in his soft tissue, he is quick to take the younger man under his wing.

            Stiles is _not_ jealous, but he’s definitely impressed.

            Where Isaac has difficulty, and Stiles usually has to cut off the lessons in favor of productivity with an awkward, apologetic smile, Derek manages to simplify the terms into an almost-common dialogue that Stiles never quite tapped into.

            With his mother during her lifetime, and with her piles of books and manuals after that, something in Stiles’ brain just always seemed to _click_. It was a good feeling—a _great_ feeling—like his dad clasping his shoulder, his mom teasing, “See, John? I told you!”

            And now he’s seeing it in Isaac, little by little, and it’s just _nice._

It’s just weird that, after a friendly enough first meeting, Derek sort of…drifts away, in terms of communication. The guy could win an award for tall, dark, and silent, and Stiles would file him away as just another douchebag if it weren’t for the way he handles Isaac, and the way his lips would quirk, just a _tiny_ bit, when Stiles cracks a joke.

            Stiles spends almost all of his time thinking about it—which is actually a relief, considering how much time that takes away from stressing out over the amount of work he used to have on his plate.

            He almost forgets how efficiently his pretty-boy coworkers drive him crazy. Until, that is, the next race day arrives, and Scott nearly totals the GT-R because a pretty brunette cocks up his turn time and—consequently—a decent chunk of Stiles’ hard work limps back to the garage for some seriously heavy maintenance.

            By the time they get back to the garage, Stiles is screaming like he’s never screamed before and Scott just isn’t getting it. He’s smiling like a damn doofus who _didn’t_ nearly bite it over a pretty set of teeth _,_ and this has got to change.

            So Stiles yells louder. 

 

* * *

 

Apparently, the entire debacle is just loud enough to get Derek’s attention from all the way in the back with the radio blasting, because he jogs to the front with a look somewhere between Abercrombie concern and Fitch confusion. Wow. Okay, Stiles is just pissed at everyone today.

            Isaac is shifting from foot to foot, trying not to make a break for it because he gets why Stiles is mad, but it still bothers him when he yells. He gives in just a little, walks to the open bay where Derek is leaning in the frame, wiping his hands on a rag and looking blissfully unaware.

            Like Stiles is being unreasonable.

            He makes a concentrated effort to bite his lip so he doesn’t go off on Derek once Scott leaves to get some rest. When he stomps into the garage and angrily throws himself into his work, he doesn’t say boo to Derek as the man follows him on quiet feet. He waits for fifteen or twenty minutes before Stiles yanks himself up and throws him a _look_.

            And then he just looks confused, because brooding is kind of _his_ thing. Stiles’ thing, apparently, is watching his friends risk life and limb playing chicken with mortality and taking his time and effort careening towards a fiery death _with_ them.

            After a few awkward moments, Derek sighs, his shoulders dropping as he rolls his neck. “All right. Come on. I have no idea what’s going on, but it’s pretty obvious that you need a beer.”

            Stiles’ face takes on a sort of blank, dumbstruck expression as his brain struggles to process Derek Hale offering to take him to a place where alcohol is served. It plays out sort of like a nun offering to be his personal guide to the local strip clubs.

            “You want to take me to a bar?”

            “Yes.”

            “You know that there will be people there? Including me?”

            “Yes, Stiles.”

            “But you don’t do crowds. There were, like, four people in the main office the other day, and you looked like you’d rather deep throat Janet Reno than—”

            “Stiles! _Please_ shut up!”

            “There’s the other thing. See, I don’t think you like me that much.”

            “Not when you talk about _deep throating—_ I—get in the car. _Please_ get in the car.”

            And Stiles goes, because you just don’t argue with that much muscle and perfect stubble. Especially not when it says _please_.

 

* * *

  

            On his way out, Stiles realizes with a belated sort of light bulb flicker that he’s never actually _seen_ Derek’s car. He knows that Derek is _proud_ of his car, because, well—he’s a dude, and Isaac is always super eager to hop in when Derek offers him a ride home.

            Stiles hasn’t been counting, or anything, but it’s happened a few times, and each time it makes him curious. For _Isaac_ to get notably excited, it’s got to be a damn good car.

            And oh, shit, it _is—_

Stiles tries not to make his own excitement obvious, because he doesn’t want to spook the elusive Derek out of his natural habitat or whatever, but—

            Spoiler: It’s a Chevy Camaro, a sleek black lovechild of luxury and speed that calls to Stiles like a pomegranate seed to soft-skinned Persephone, and he may or may not be half-way to an awkward car-boner.

            Derek looks at him suspiciously, and Stiles realizes that he’s making a soft, high-pitched whining noise. He ducks his head and gets in the car before the other man can come to his senses because, really, Stiles _needs_ to be inside this vehicle. 

 

* * *

 

 

            Derek at the wheel is the same as Derek at everything else—picturesque and vaguely reminiscent of how inferior every other air-breathing organism must be in comparison. Usually, a good-looking guy with his hands in-range of a gear shift just makes Stiles wants to scream and throw himself out of the vehicle, but Derek manages to _exude_ a sort of capable confidence that makes him feel safe.

            They’re rolling smoothly along the street, heading towards what Stiles assumes is Derek’s bar of choice when he decides to attempt polite conversation. It’s not like Derek can think of him as any _less_ of a mutant than he apparently already does.

            He opens his mouth to discuss the weather or something equally neutral when Derek drops the bomb. “So what happened?”

            Stiles grits his teeth, feeling himself forcefully dragged right back onto the train of thought he _seriously_ does not want to ride all the way to dysfunction junction and giant screaming panic attack depot. “An accident.”

            “Isn’t that an occupational hazard?”

            Stiles looks at Derek, really _looks_ , and Derek shifts just slightly under the scrutiny, as if Stiles might bite him and transmit the dipshititis. “He didn’t tell you?”

            “Tell me what?”

            “At our place, it’s not an occupational hazard. It’s an art form. A game, really. I build it, they break it. In _fantastically_ varied ways. Really. It’s kind of like Skittles, but for car accidents. Taste the fucking rainbow.”

            Stiles watches as Derek arches an eyebrow, and suddenly he feels challenged. “You don’t believe me. Oh, that’s cute. You just wait, buddy. Isaac does it, too. Before long, they’ll drive you just as nuts as I am. I can’t wait. One day you’re fixing cars and the next you’re sobbing over the desecrated corpse of a fucking Nissan.”

            “Is the shimmying mandatory, or am I allowed to opt out?”

            And then Stiles is openly staring. “Derek Hale, did you just make a joke?”

            Derek keeps his eyes on the road, but Stiles can see the corner of his mouth twitching. He told a joke, an actual joke. They’re bonding. This has been the greatest twenty seconds of Stiles’s life.

            “Don’t wake me, I’m in my happy place.”

            “It can’t be that bad.”

            Stiles snorts and lets it go. He can’t fight with Derek right now, doesn’t even want to try. He’ll see, and then he’ll either run away screaming or—maybe in Stiles’s wettest dreams—stick around to beat some sense into McCall and Lahey, Dudes of Destruction.

            “I don’t get you.”

            “What’s there to get?” Derek asks slowly, like Stiles just confessed that he’s been trying to find the self-destruct button cleverly hidden in his pants.

            “You work as a grease monkey at some random ass garage, slaving away in the California summer heat, yet you drive a Camaro.”

            Derek shrugs, lazily turning a corner in a motion that _somehow manages_ to make his muscles ripple, and Stiles is just—gone. He gives up. The universe is unfair and Derek Hale is taking him out for a beer.

            “I like the work, and I heard there was a pretty decent mechanic working there already.”

            If this were a sitcom, there would be a record scratching right about now. Stiles’s mouth pops open like an overloaded glove compartment, and Derek is smirking. Like, _emoting smug amusement._

            Stiles is quiet the rest of the way to the bar.

 

* * *

 

            Once they’re seated with beers in hand, they actually have a pleasant conversation. Derek talks— _actually talks_ —more than he has to Stiles since he started working at the garage. They talk about cars, at first, and how they both got into them.

            Derek’s uncle was the guilty party on his end, though he’s vague on most of the details. Uncle Peter has, apparently, become a sore topic, and Stiles is smart enough not to press now that he’s finally got the man’s tongue working properly.

            “For me, it was my mom.”

            “Your mom worked on cars?”

            Stiles laughs and shakes his head, “Nah, man. We weren’t that rich. My dad’s actually the sheriff over in Beacon Hills. My mom was a schoolteacher.”

            “In Beacon Hills?”

            “Yeah. You know it?”

            “I lived there when I was younger. Up by the preserve.” His face is open at first, but then his brow furrows, like the memory is turning sour on his tongue. “It was nice.”

            He doesn’t say, _While it lasted,_ but Stiles is quick to make the connection.

            “You’re one of _those_ Hales.” He says, “With the—”

            “The fire. Yes.” Derek’s eyes are hard when he looks up from scraping the label off of his beer, “Like I said: We moved.”

            Stiles is quick to change the subject.

 

* * *

 

            When they finally _do_ bring in the GT-R, and Derek gets a look at it, Stiles is sorry he didn’t go ahead and put money on it, because well, _I fucking told you so, dude._

            Derek’s reaction is equal parts disbelief and anger, which is actually kind of entertaining, because it’s _Derek_ , and Isaac is always underfoot, so he can’t take it out anywhere near the puppy-eyed blonde unless he wants to feel the guilt for a month.

            He keeps curling his fingers into his palm, tucking them into white-knuckled fists and pulling his lips in, like he’s bottling up tiny explosions. He’s like that for most of the day, taking breaks to work on other, less mind-numbingly pointless projects before coming back to help Stiles perform surgery on the innocent automobile.

            They don’t talk much as they work, but the silence is a lot more companionable than it had been before. When he sees another fit of angry disbelief coming on, Stiles knocks their shoulders together, shrugging and rolling his eyes when Derek shoots him a look.

            “C’mon,” He says, “Let’s work some magic here.”

            And between the two of them, they do. The damage isn’t as bad as it could have been, and they’re both skilled and dedicated hands, swapping tips and tricks and working like—for lack of better words—a well-oiled machine.

            Stiles is just starting to relax around the hot mid-day mark, absently admiring the sheen of sweat and slicks on Derek’s strong shoulders and upper back. And then, right around lunch, Lydia Martin floats in.

             Always graceful and frighteningly efficient, she rakes her eyes over the place, taking in the car, then Derek before arching a brow at Stiles as she struts right into the main office on her designer heels. Scott may wave _Stiles_ off with a dopey grin, but once Lydia Martin enters the fray, he knows there’s going to be penance.

            A sympathetic shudder runs halfway up his spine before he turns back to a lost-looking Derek.

            “Behold Lydia Martin, Queen of the Fucking Universe.” Stiles grins, “She handles the books, runs the numbers, keeps all of our balls in a designer vice.”

            There’s a yelping sound from the office, and Stiles closes his eyes, allowing himself to feel vindicated for a few seconds before resigning himself to smoothing Scott’s feathers later. “Let’s get back to work, man. You don’t want her to catch you slacking.”

            Derek rolls his eyes, “You’re the one who stopped.”

            “Shh.”

            “Stiles?”

            In under three seconds, Stiles is straight-backed and reaching for a rag to wipe off his hands. He fights the urge to throw out a _yes, mistress_ because it’s both asking for it and disconcertingly true.

            “Lydia?”

            She moves toward him like an empress gliding over marble, rather than a California it-girl picking her way over auto parts and oil slicks. “Are you going to introduce me to the new hire?”

            There’s a hint of uncertainty in her voice, as if she hasn’t yet decided whether she approves of their newest addition. Stiles doesn’t really give a rat’s ass, because at this point, Derek is staying. Awkward crush or no, he is not giving up his handy dandy Derek, no matter how sharp Lydia’s perfectly-manicured nails are.

            After a moment’s hesitation, she sighs and extends her hand, giving up on Stiles’s apparently horrendous social graces. “Lydia Martin.”

            “Derek Hale,” He answers, “I’d shake your hand, but…” He lifts blackened palms and jerks his head at the now-filthy rag that Stiles is wringing in his hands.

            “Mhmmm.” Lydia hums, retrieving her hand as she gives him an obvious once-over before pointing at Stiles, “I’ll be borrowing this one. For lunch.”

            It’s news to him, but he doesn’t have much time to object when she grabs his shirt sleeve and physically _hauls_ him from the garage.

            _Tak tak tak._

 

* * *

 

            Stiles has known Lydia Martin since high school, when the heights of his adolescent adoration led him to make an ass out of himself every other Tuesday.

            Eventually, Lydia had taken the time out of her busy schedule to sit him down and give him a firm talking-to. Somewhere along the way it had gone from, _You’re an interesting guy, but not the kind I need to fuck_ to _Plus I’m like 97% sure you secretly like dick, because no one spends that much time staring at Danny’s dimples without liking dick._

            For a second, the sting of rejection had been bitingly cruel and overwhelming, and then he’d processed the rest. “I think maybe you’re underestimating the power of the dimples here.”

            And she’d smiled, her lips a perfect crimson bow and said, “Oh, I never miscalculate.”

            He’d ended up on a horrifically ill-planned date with Danny that ended with—thankfully—more laughter and back-slapping than threats to inform his father how very ill-suited he was to mingle with the rest of humanity.

            Lydia has been one of his greatest allies and intellectual combatants ever since. He doesn’t mean to knock Scott at all, except, well, the guy crashes the cars he works on for funsies, and Lydia understands the frustration.

            They both tutored him for finals.

            The moral of the story is that they’re friends—good friends, the kind of friends that discuss major life plans and the sweeping nature of soul and romance. Which is why Stiles isn’t necessarily surprised when she shoves a tub of wet wipes at him as soon as he climbs into her passenger seat and says, “You will tell me everything as soon as you’re done de-gunking your greasy palms.”

            She knows he’s prone to talking with his hands. He’s come into contact with Lydia’s possessions while ‘gunked’ before, and he knows better now. It’s not a battle he intends to fight.

            “’Gee, thanks for coming to lunch with me, Stiles. I know you’re super busy and all, what with the two human wrecking balls who _also_ work here, but it means a lot’.”

            “Are you finished?”

            “I was just about to get to the part where you tell me how roguishly handsome I am, and how you plan to leave Jackson for me.”

            She rolls her eyes, “I can’t leave Jackson. He’s finally trained. And it wouldn’t work anyway.”

            “You’re right. Our spawn would be too beautiful to survive in this cruel world. We have to think of the children.” He patters out in monotone, stuffing the used wipes in his pocket and sealing the bin.

            When he looks up, Lydia has the cutest little wrinkle in her nose, which is better than the _I will throw you from this car_ twitch. “Oh, please. You already _have_ someone.”

            “I _what_?”

            There’s silence in the car for a few moments as Lydia waits for him to process this latest bit of information. It’s not really working.

            “Oh,” She says, “Oh. You seriously didn’t know?”

            “Know what?”

            She slides her sunglasses on, her lips once again forming that perfect red bow as she steps on the gas, “You and I, silly boy, are going to have _such_ fun.”

            The last time she said _that_ , Stiles’s ex wound up with his eyebrows ‘accidentally’ burned off in a freak lab accident.

            

**Author's Note:**

> The rest is still in progress. If you'd like to lend a hand (or just cheer my deadbeat ass on), my tumblr is [anabundanceofstilinskis.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/)


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